“Dear Charles Dickens,” he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion.
“Aren’t you rather sorry you chucked painting?”asked Hayward.
“No.”
“I suppose you like doctoring?”
“No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of the first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven’t got the scientific temperament.”
“Well, you can’t go on changing professions.”
“Oh, no. I’m going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better when I get into the wards. I have an idea that I’m more interested in people than in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see, it’s the only profession in which you have your freedom. You carry your knowledge in your head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your living anywhere.”